Hungover
by Otoshigo
Summary: USUK Pre-Slash. England is hungover after a very wild night.


England was hungover.

Yet not unpleasantly so. Rather than the debilitating headache and the nausea he was used to, his mind throbbed simply from lack of sleep, lack of water. Lack of sense clearly. (How many drinks had he had?) He had the oddest sensation of floating through the day, as though he were still dreaming. He wasn't quite sure how he got to the World Meeting, actually. Habit alone had saved him. He'd much rather be in bed and have a bit of a kip. Instead he got to work, answering salutations automatically, and sat in his seat as he pondered in quiet contemplation when he could leave so that he could just curl up on the sofa at home with Doctor Who and a cuppa.

Wait, who was speaking now? Poland? He was sure it was Germany a second ago. He frowned, but mentally shrugged it off and took a sip of his tea. It tasted very strange today. Odd.

Something shifted beside him and he heard an incredibly loud, "Good Morning!" as if through a megaphone.

England winced, his headache not so pleasant now. "Morning," he replied, only vaguely aware that America had settled down next to him. Hopefully, the boy would be nice and quiet if England just did not engage him. What time was it anyway?

"Oh man, I had the best time at that party last night!" America said cheerfully. "Especially when Prussia decided to crash it! Did you see Germany chase him all up and down the halls! It was so funny-!"

Oh lord. Did America just not see he wasn't in any state to talk? No, of course not. The boy was only so lucky that he was the pleasant sort of hungover that found America's boisterous enthusiasm only mildly annoying. Actually, he was getting a bit used to it. There were dark spots on America's jacket. Wait, was it raining? Cor, did he forget to bring his brolly? Oh no, it was likely in his briefcase. Surely, he could never be that hungover as to leave his brolly out of his briefcase.

...Did he bring his briefcase?

Something prodded his arm and he turned to see America pouting at him. "Iggy, are you even listening to me?" Honestly, the boy was adorable when he looked like that. He always had the same look on his face whenever he wanted to get England's attention when he was a child. He really did spoil that boy rotten when he was young. And that nickname... His lips pulled into a small smile thinking of it.

Whatever complaint America seemed to have disappeared as he flushed and sputtered. His pretty blue eyes darted all over the place until they finally settled on England's cup. Then they went wide. "O-M-G, England are you drinking coffee!"

England looked down into his cup. Well. That certainly explained the strange taste. He took another sip. "It appears so," he answered simply. He must have picked it up by mistake. Oh well, it was warm at least and he didn't want to get up again to get another cup.

America deflated at his reaction, apparently hoping for some sort of violent explosion. England might have obliged him if he weren't feeling so lightheaded. He checked his watch. Bother, had only two minutes passed? And now it wasn't Poland speaking anymore, it was Finland.

He felt a strong hand on his arm, giving it a squeeze. It felt quite nice. "Hey, England," America said in a hushed voice, his expression riveted with concern, "are you feeling okay?"

"Why?" England asked. He was sure that he had been functioning quite normally up until this point. No one else had commented.

America gave an uncomfortable shrug. "I dunno. Cuz, you're like, way pale. Seriously, like, bedsheet white. And you're super out of it too."

"America, you sound like a valley-girl," England chided, taking a sip of coffee.

"This is what I'm talking about!" America cried loudly, earning himself a few annoyed shushes. He ignored them. Instead he hovered close to England, the way that he used to when they were huddled behind a sandbag wall with rifles in hand. His voice dipped into a conspiratorial whisper. "England, you're not... like, tripping right now, are you?"

A flare of irritation ignited. "Don't be absurd. Of course not! I take one coffee and you automatically assume that I'm on drugs! I am simply tired!" England hissed, ready to smack the boy across the back of his head for his impudence.

America fell back in his seat, visibly relieved. "Alright, alright, just checking," he said, giving England a grin. "At least I know that you haven't been replaced with some clone. Oh hey, if you're tired then maybe you should get some breakfast," he added, pulling out a McDonald's sandwich from who-knew-where in his jacket. He held it out, the smell of bacon and sausage grease hitting England like a brick.

England's stomach lurched, churning angrily with a sudden wave of nausea. "No. No, thank you. Put that away," he said tightly. Right, he hadn't a thing to eat this morning. Now he was sure that he wouldn't be having anything for lunch.

America shrugged and immediately dispensed with it himself, swallowing it down in only three bites. "Don't know what you're missing~" he goaded, giving England a cheeky grin.

"Git," England muttered, feeling his lucidity fast fading without anger to focus it. The coffee was not helping one whit to keep him attentive, so he resigned himself to simply getting through the day with the knowledge that he was going to be entirely unproductive. He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes. Damn it.

When the session broke for lunch, America's eyes immediately went to England to check on him. The older nation was definitely still out of it, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused, notepad completely untouched. Normally, England took such rigorous notes during meetings that America assumed that he had some form of hypergraphia. (Yes,heknewwhatthatwas,shutup.) Now England looked so loopy that America didn't even know if he realized that they'd stopped for break.

America poked him in the arm, drawing his gaze. "Hey, want to go get some lunch?" he asked, his own stomach begging for attention. England's nose immediately scrunched with disgust, but America cut him off before he could say anything. "C'mon, Iggy, you can't go without food. You didn't even finish your coffee!" he said, nodding to the stone-cold cup sitting in front of the older nation.

England suddenly smiled at him. That gentle, amused smile that made America all hot and bothered when he saw it. "You slipped again," England teased.

"What? No, I didn't. What?" America immediately denied, even though he had no idea what England was talking about. No, he did have an idea and he could feel himself begin to panic. His cheeks grew hot and he prayed that England hadn't somehow noticed just how hard America had been crushing on him for the past few years. How could he? England was out of it the entire day!

"Iggy?" England pressed, raising an eyebrow. America suddenly had the strange sensation of feeling simultaneously relieved and utterly dismayed. When America didn't respond, England continued, "You called me that all the time when you were little since you couldn't pronounced England properly. It was always 'Iggy' this and 'Iggy' that. It was the cutest thing."

Oh dear God, England wasn't about to ramble off into embarrassing childhood stories was he? America felt humiliation creeping up his neck, especially when he could feel interested ears turning discretely in their direction from the nations who had yet to leave for lunch. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, he was going to punch that smirk off of France's smug face. "Can you just- Stop. Please just stop," America begged, not caring who heard. He didn't need to be reminded that his infatuation was with the one who had basically changed his diapers. (And that's all that it would ever be, once he flippin' got over it.)

England, blessedly, didn't elaborate. However, he still kept that now-infuriating smile on his face.

"Lunch," America pressed again, hoping to change the subject. "Food. Eat. Do you want it?" He was half-tempted just to leave England here, since he was being such a dick. However, he felt guilty for the idea of leaving England alone when he was clearly out of his mind. What if he got mugged! Or something. Maybe he'd wander off into oncoming traffic. He totally did it before when he was off following his imaginary friends around on some quest or whatever. No, he definitely couldn't leave England alone. It wasn't safe.

England pondered this. "I just want some tea," he decided primly, "and maybe a quick kip. You go on ahead."

America stared at him. "Are you insane?" he demanded. "You can't nap anywhere with France around! You're likely to wake up ass-raped in some rose field or whatever!" Behind him, he could hear France harrumph and march off in a tiff.

England canted his head, giving America a sour look. "But I'm tired," he said, as if it was America's fault that he was in this state. Was it? Maybe it was. America lost about half the evening thanks to Prussia's spiked punch.

At this, America made an executive decision. "Okay, then I'm taking you back home," he said, picking himself up from his chair. He was still starving, but England probably had stuff in his cupboards to cook for lunch. Probably.

"What about the meeting?" England argued, putting up some token resistance when America tried to yank him up to his feet. America got him up anyway, wrapping an arm around the shorter nation's shoulders.

"What was Germany's main topic about?" America asked, all bravado. Course, he was completely bluffing because it wasn't like he was paying any sort of attention either.

Thankfully, England didn't call him out on it as he muttered a dark "Fine!" and wormed his way out of America's grip. "And I can walk myself, thank you," he said, right before he walked straight into a column.

America only relaxed when he got England settled onto his own sofa with a huge mug of tea in hand. He even pulled a thick blue afghan over him to help him get cozy and brought him his robe and slippers. England didn't put up any kind of fight once America got him in the door, content to let the younger nation move about as if he owned the place. In fact, he didn't say a word until he muttered a small thanks when America handed him his tea and put on some classic Doctor Who for him to watch.

England had one of those smiles on again. A secretive smile, like he was reminiscing or laughing at some private joke. "What?" America asked defensively, once he saw it.

"Oh. Nothing," the older nation replied, taking a sip of his tea. "Just that this is exactly what I wanted to do this morning. Odd that you know me so well." There wasn't any sort of accusation in his voice, but America felt himself grow embarrassed regardless.

"Not my fault you're so predictable," America replied with false-nonchalance, before looking back towards the kitchen. "Anywho, do you have, like, bread, or something? I need to pack sandwiches to go-" He stopped short when he felt a hand wrap around his wrist. He looked down and his breath caught when he met England's green eyes.

"Stay," England said softly, his eyes intensely focused.

America's heart quickened at the command. He gently twisted his wrist, trying to get away. England's grip was surprisingly firm. "I have to go back to the meeting," he argued. "And also why?"

England simply shrugged and smiled. "You're being so sweet today. I cannot help but want you all to myself." Now America's heart was thudding harder, so hard he thought England might be able to hear it. Exactly how many times had he imagined England speaking those words to him? He tried to make himself calm down. England still only saw him as his baby brother.

"I- Dude, can't I even go into the kitchen?" America asked, testing England's grip again.

"Order a pizza," the older nation replied, tugging America lower. "Now sit. Play hooky with me."

America slowly did so, but only because this situation was so totally backwards. Since when did England mandate junk food? Or tell him to take off from a meeting? It wasn't because his imagination was going bananas and he wanted every opportunity to get as close to England as possible.

Settling onto the opposite side of the sofa, America pulled out his phone so he could order something from his Dominoes app. He barely knew what he was ordering, all his thoughts going to how close he and England were, how he could feel each of England's toes pressed against the side of his leg, how he still smell faint traces of the cologne that England used at the party last night, and just how warm it was getting in here. Seriously, it was getting really, really warm.

"Hey, you know I have to, like, get up to get the pizza, right?" America asked, glancing up from his phone. He was answered by a tired, noncommittal noise from the other end of the sofa. America frowned (not pouted, he didn't pout). Still, seriously? All that fuss and England was just gonna conk out on him right away?

Sighing in exasperation, he leaned over to the other side and pulled the mug of tea from England's loose fingers before it fell to the ground. He paused over the other nation, hovering above England's sleeping face. America couldn't remember the last time he'd seen England so relaxed. He was so passionate about whatever he did, almost never living up to the gentlemanly image that he thought he portrayed. Especially when he got into it with France. Yeesh.

Now though, this was private. This was England, this reserved and gentle soul. This was the England that he remembered, not the bulldog in the military and political battlefronts. The one that loved to bake cookies, even if they were terrible. The one that loved to knit and garden. The one that had carried a lamb twenty miles by foot because he couldn't bear to see America in tears. (Yes, he was a kid then.) The one that America missed terribly.

His stomach fluttered, temptation just too great. Sucking in a deep breath, America leaned closer and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of England's lips. Heart thumping, he quickly pulled away in case England woke up and find him up in his face.

Carefully, he extricated himself from the sofa and away from his crush. Well, there was no point in staying with England already asleep. And to be honest, he didn't trust himself there. "Sleep tight," he murmured softly, before quickly and quietly departing from England's house.

A few moments later, England woke from his dozing, eyes blearily looking out at the telly. Both sofa and house were vacated, though it looked like America accidentally left his suit jacket behind. Silly boy.

His eyes dropped down to his hand, remembering the feeling of America's pulse racing beneath his fingertips. He smiled, curling his fingers and cradling his hand against his chest as though he were carrying a small bird.

Best hangover ever, he thought, just as he dropped back to sleep.


End file.
